


All those things (I didn't say)

by WeWalkADifferentPath



Series: This pride might just keep me warm [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (well at least demi/grey), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Derek Hale, Bisexual Derek Hale, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, F/M, Grooming, Homophobic Language, I don't think anything is Too Heavy but please be warned, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Internalized Acephobia, Internalized Homophobia, Kate is a creep and some people are kind of rude, M/M, Nonbinary Isaac Lahey, Past Relationship(s), Pride, SO, Stiles is always aged up a little in any fics I write too fyi, and Erica and Boyd are alive bc I refuse to believe they're not, everyone is queer just you wait, nothing after the nogistune really happened, please note that Kate is in this in a flashback, there's also
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 23:50:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15084446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeWalkADifferentPath/pseuds/WeWalkADifferentPath
Summary: Derek knew that he was different pretty early on.He didn't know what that could mean, though, until Stiles got under his skin.(Second part of a pride series but can stand alone).





	All those things (I didn't say)

**Author's Note:**

> sooooo hi again. Like the description says, this is the second part of a series of fics I'm doing for Pride month-- there are a few small references that you won't catch if you don't read the first part, but I think this can pretty easily stand alone too (I hope).
> 
> important note, as one of my lovely tumblr friends reminded me to include: this is loosely based on some of my experiences. It only reflects my experience and is not universal. There's also some room for interpretation with Derek's sexuality where the ace thing is concerned, partially because I'm still figuring my own out. 
> 
> As noted in the last part, I am a Certified Cis(tm) without a sensitivity reader. Criticism on that front is encouraged (note that this is from Derek's POV too, so some things that he thinks may be slightly iffy or outdated but not mean-spirited or negative). 
> 
> There will be one more part to this series, hopefully before the end of Pride month this week.

Derek knew that he was into girls when he fell into _Paige_.

She was unlike anyone he’d ever known before. Fierce and fiery, all dry wit and stubborn smiles and shy head tilts and talent; god, overflowing talent. Then she liked him back, too, unashamedly and openly and with so much energy that it made his head spin. She was everything.

She was life, and even then Derek was drawn to it. Like some kind of pathetic, life-sucking moth.  Though at that point he wasn’t apologetic about it, didn’t yet know that he was supposed to be. He didn’t know that he would soon suck the life out of everyone around him until there was no one left but him, standing in the rubble (literally, after) of his burnt up past. All he knew then was that he wanted her.

He wanted her so badly.

Before Paige he hadn’t been sure. He hadn’t liked anyone up until then. No one had ever caught his eye. Or his heart. No one had ever made him want.

The realization of that, of that lack, had started early. He could remember the first time that his group of friends had asked him _who do you think is the hottest girl in school?_  Sixth grade; though it wouldn’t be the last time. At first he’d tried to shrug it off because honestly he didn’t know and he cared even less but they’d insisted, laughing at him and teasing him with sharp smiles edged in _gay_ and _fag_ and _target_. So. Derek had shrugged again and pointed to the first girl that he saw walking by.

(It was only later, much later, that he’d realize who that girl was. Realize that he’d known even then, even before he’d known).

Paige. Even her name was soft.

It was also years later that he would ask Peter about the other boys in his class. About how they would ask him, all the time, who he wanted, who he thought was worthy. About how they’d sit around at the lunch table or work table or sports field for hours every day, talking about which girl had the best body or biggest boobs or which they thought was slutty enough to maybe give them a chance (none of them ever did). They’d leer at girls as they walked by, whooping and insulting in equal measure, and “accidentally” leave their ranked lists of Hot or Not out where they knew the girls would find them, just to hurt feelings.

Derek didn’t get it.

So he decided to ask Peter.

It was one of those nights when the moon was near full, when the wolf under Peter’s skin was practically itching its way out, blurring his uncle into something vicious and intangible until he was near-unrecognizable (Near. They never talked about it then, but they all knew Peter; what was clawing out of his insides, what had always been there. They all pretended that Peter wasn’t feeding it).

Derek listened outside of the study until the smashing glass stopped. Counted five breaths. Knocked.

“Come in.”

Peter had finished off his third or fourth shot if the dent in the whiskey bottle was any indication, and he was sitting with his legs up on the desk, spinning the glass in his hands with abandon. Good. That was good. Usually that was when his uncle was the most forthcoming (though also the most cruel). But when Derek asked, finally piecing words together to create a semblance of the question that was rolling around in his gut, Peter just shrugged.

“You’re a wolf,” he said, expression blank. “You don’t understand it because what those boys are chasing after so desperately,” he emphasized the word, like it was dirty, “is something that you’ve never needed to look for.”

The word _attraction_ flashed across Derek’s mind, faint understandings of lust and craving and a desire that he hadn’t grown into yet, but he knew some of the others had. But still he asked.

Peter smiled and his was sharp too. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly wistful, at odds with the bitter twist of his lips. “I refuse to corrupt you, Derek” he said. “One day you’ll understand. All men fall to it eventually.  It’s the way of the world.”

Derek was pretty tired of people telling him that. _One day you’ll understand,_ like a promise, the unspoken threat of _what if I don’t_ hanging off the end like a dangling participle. (Derek was a nerd, sue him).

It made him feel cold. He didn’t like what-ifs.  

But somehow, from Peter, it had sounded less like a threat and more like a guarantee. So Derek let it give him hope rather than anger. Maybe one day he would understand.

(Years later he would.

After Paige, after he’d let Peter talk him into skewering her, after he’d watched her surge with the bite and almost, almost become his forever, he’d understood.

He’d wonder later if Peter had known then what would happen).

\-- --

“We should go to Pride.”

Stiles’s was blasé as he walked into Derek’s loft, struggling just slightly with the heavy Ikea box. The sun followed after him as the door opened enough for him to slip through, and he half-turned, kicking it closed with the heel of one foot.

Derek stared at him.

Stiles lowered the box onto the living room floor with a grunt. “It could be cool, you know?” He swiped a piece of sweaty hair back from his forehead, straightening to face him with the ghost of a smirk.

And it was still so surprising—that almost-smirk, or at least the way that it wasn’t cruel, that it was _fond_ when it was turned on Derek—even after all of these years. Even when the familiarity of it had practically settled into Derek’s bones.

The “no” was out of his mouth before he’d even thought about it.

Stiles met his eye. His gaze was assessing but to his credit, he didn’t ask why. (Probably because he already knew that Derek wouldn’t have a reason, not really.

Derek wasn’t even sure what Pride was.

Not that he would ask).

Still, he had the brief, shuddery-sick feeling that Stiles was staring into his mind or his soul, or something else equally cheesy and terrifying. It was stupid, _not even Stiles could do that, none of them could,_ but. Still. He did his best to remain impassive and blank.

“It’d be good for the pack.”

Okay, guilt trip, then. Derek raised an eyebrow.

Stiles crossed his arms. “You don’t know which of them might be queer, you know?”

Derek thought of Isaac, with his nervous energy and green scarf and his voice when he’d asked _you don’t mind?_ And his smile, the other day, with the vanity table. Stiles didn’t know about any of that, though.

“Besides, with everything that happens around here-” (as if things still happened in Beacon Hills, as if Stiles had never let go of the constant hypervigilance; Derek hadn’t either), “-it might be good to take any chance of a celebration you can get. You do know how to celebrate, don’t you big guy?” It was a grin now and he leaned against the box, long limbs stretched out and hip extended and arm bent awkwardly at the elbow like the beginning of some kind of sports drink commercial. Derek turned his gaze away, then back.

“No.”

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek. Straightened. Shuffled his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Derek waited, ready to fall into the trap he’d just created, waited for the smug eye-crinkle and for Stiles to make a crack about how _surely you know how to celebrate, Derek, what about all those parties you throw whenever you master a new eyebrow maneuver?_ Waited to play his part, to roll his eyes or bare his teeth or sigh heavily (he hadn’t decided yet, he could be spontaneous).

 But when Stiles did speak, all he said was “Yeah. Okay.”

Somehow that was worse.

It was like he’d expected that Derek would say no. Like Derek hadn’t just gone with him to Ikea, hadn’t just suffered through two hours of waving hands decking him in the face and things he definitely shouldn’t spend money on finding their way into his cart. As if Derek wouldn’t even consider something that was good for his pack.

So. Derek considered it.

But there was still the obvious problem of not exactly knowing what the fuck Stiles was talking about.

“What-“ he clamped his mouth shut.

Nope. Derek was wrong—he was weak, he was a bad alpha. He wasn’t doing this.

Stiles’s face made a twitching movement. He cleared his throat. “Words, Derek?”

Derek rolled his eyes, reminding himself that Stiles couldn’t hear his heartbeat. “Just get the other boxes.”

They still had a couple more to bring in, with god knows what inside of them (the fact that he couldn’t remember couldn’t possibly be a good sign. He hadn’t known when he’d asked Stiles that he would let himself get suckered into buying so much, just to shut Stiles up. That he’d let himself agree to go to another store with him this weekend, to look for more crap that he probably didn’t need, would never use. Derek was weak). But it was warm enough outside already and Derek was hungry, so they might as well get the unloading over with.

But Stiles was apparently ignoring him again because he didn’t make any move to leave when Derek did. Instead, he tilted his head considerly, looking somehow both victorious and something else, something sadder, that Derek couldn’t decipher so decided to ignore.

Stiles’s feelings weren’t his problem. Stiles’s anything wasn’t his problem. Stiles wasn’t his.

_ What? _

“Pride,” Stiles repeated, like Derek hadn’t heard it the first time. “June 26 th . It’s a parade. Google it.”

And, okay. Derek was—it had been a long day. He’d dealt with a lot of fucking staff and their fucking helpful lighting tips and their fucking customer service working telling him that no, he couldn’t actually return a lamp that he’d shattered, it wasn’t their fault he’d thrown it out a window, which. Fair. But.

It had been a long day. And Derek had been dealing with a lot. Like adults do. Things for his pack, thank you very much Stiles.

So he could be forgiven for the muttered “google your face” that slipped out from between his gritted teeth.

“Did you just-- did you just make a _your face_ joke?” By now Stiles’s eyebrows had thoroughly disappeared under his bangs, and the overwhelming smell of tucked-away laughter rolled off of him in a wave that almost knocked Derek over. “Dude.”

And maybe Derek let his lip quirk up just a little, because Stiles had helped him all day, after all. (And maybe he was a little relieved, to be back on this ground that he understood). But he bared a fang for good measure, too. “Just get the other boxes.”

Stiles nodded, snorting as he held in giggles and turned, his continuing laughter travelling over his shoulder as he walked back into the sunshine.

\-- --

  
  


Derek knew that he was into boys when he turned 15.

The basketball team was a pretty good place to figure that out, if he were being honest. A gym full of other boys, sweaty and physical and competitive and lost in themselves and their fun for long enough to also lose the sorrow that laced so many of them even then, somehow.

(That was before Derek understood the heavy weight of sorrow, and how you can wear it like a jacket, carry it around with you all over and never shake it off and eventually forget to even notice, until you did).

Those moments in the gym, when that jacket came off of some of them-- the ones whose parents had divorced or sisters had been hospitalized after car accidents or girlfriends had broken up with them—they were bright. They were alluring; like Paige, only not.

He didn’t want them the same way as her.

The shedding of sorrow was the only layer-removal that Derek was interested in then, but god was he drawn to it.  

Still, he didn’t want them.

Until Tyler, that was.

Tyler was warm.

He wasn’t a light in the dark, like Paige, nor did he captivate Derek’s attention the same way. He was just a boy, really. Just a regular human boy with a pleasant smile and strong arms.

Derek hadn’t cared about him any more than he cared about any of his other teammates.  Until he did.

“Derek, bro!”

Derek’s gaze snapped up. He struggled for a moment to pull his consciousness back from wherever it had been drifting (he knew where it’d be drifting). “Huh?”

“What are you looking at?”

He bit his lip on the name that wanted to fall out. “No one.”

He tried not to notice that he’d been asked what he was looking at, not who.

His teammate, Mark, tilted his head. He scanned an assessing glance over Derek and then followed it out toward his eye-line, or where he presumed it to be. He crossed his arms. “Are you really that obsessed with technique? Coach said you were fine. You don’t need to be a creeper and watch everyone else’s plays.”

Derek tried to look vaguely chastised. “I’m not being creepy.” (Humans couldn’t detect lies).

Mark snorted. “Whatever, dude. You totally are. Hey, where’s Paige?”

Derek’s head swiveled up. “She’s—I don’t know. I don’t keep tabs on her.”

Mark raised an eyebrow, but Derek focused behind him, on the game that was happening just outside of the entrance to their changing room. Just outside of Derek’s current grasp.

He didn’t look at Tyler though. Not any more than any of the other players. Why would he?

“Uhm, Derek. Hate to break it to you man but you totally do keep tabs on her. It’s kind of pathetic, to be honest. I mean she’s cool and all, but-“

He wasn’t distracted enough to let that slip. “Yeah,” he said, voice assertive in the way that he could make it, because he was young and attractive and popular and people listened to him, “she is cool.”

He didn’t bother to look; he could practically feel Mark rolling his eyes. They’d had this conversation before. “When are you finally gonna fuck her?”

“None of your fucking business.” The words fired out on instinct. And it wasn’t. It _wasn’t_.

Besides, he and Paige hadn’t even been dating that long yet. They were both young. He didn’t have to want that yet. There were no--

She loved him.

He loved her.

He heard Mark sigh. “People are going to think you’re gay, soon, Derek,” he said, long-sufferingly, like he was doing Derek some sort of favour. “You might want to get ahead of that.”

Derek tore his eyes away from Tyler’s _arms abs smile- what the fuck_ long enough to growl at his teammate. Just a little, not enough to be not-human. “Screw off and let me watch the game, Mark,” he said. Then, because he had to, “I’ll see you at lunch?”

Mark smiled, already leaving. “I look forward to stealing your curly fries.”

\-- ---

13,000,194.

That was the number of hits that came up on Google when Derek typed in “Pride.”

He closed his eyes. Opened them. Tried “Pride parade.”  Got 9,000,000.

“Pride parade June.”: 8,000,360

He sighed. Typed in “what the fuck is Pride parade and why should I go.” Deleted it. Typed in “what does non-binary mean?” Deleted that, too.

Fuck.

1.

That was the number of texts it took; also the number of seconds that it took before he heard Stiles’s voice, mid-laugh with his mouth full when the call connected even though he was the one who’d called Derek.

(0: the amount of fucks that Derek had left).

\-- -

It wasn’t until Kate, that Derek knew he was different.

That he _felt_ that he was different.

Like the gnawing, aching, ice-cold smattering of thick guilt-blood-blue that jabbed at his insides, clawed into his esophagus, took up residency in his shattered lungs and stretched-tight veins.

He was different. He was wrong. In so, so many fucking ways, ways he hadn’t even known he could be wrong. But he was, in all of them.

Paige was--

With Kate, he wouldn’t be. He would be exactly what he needed to be. What he should be.

She liked to lie to him, sometimes, to tell him that he was already right; it was like a game they’d play. (Of course, he’d need to keep his attraction to men, this strange thing inside of him, under wraps.  She was right about that. It could be dangerous if people found out, if they weren’t accepting. He didn’t tell Kate that he’d told his mom already, that she hadn’t seemed to agree that it was a secret).

Kate just wanted what was best for him.

(He also had to keep Kate a secret).

Kate knew, like he did, that it was a fluke, how he’d beenattracted (he’d tested the word on his tongue, still unsure) to Tyler. He’d been in love with—with someone else, with her, it didn’t matter—at the time anyways, and what he’d felt for the older boy had been so fleeting. He’d barely even known Tyler.

Well, that wasn’t true. They’d spent three afternoons a week after school practicing with the team, and a couple of times afterward, going out for pizza, making Hot or Not lists with the others or at least pretending to. Tyler was their assistant coach. Derek had known him well enough, he supposed.

But Derek had never thought he was all that special.

It wasn’t until he’d started hearing about him that things had started changing. Tyler was something of a local hero; he was an assistant coach, a firefighter in training, a volunteer at the animal shelter. That summer he’d become a local legend when he’d saved a girl from drowning at the municipal pool. There had been several articles about him, interviews and photo shoots. Nothing ever happened in Beacon Hills. So when it did, it was huge.

That was also the summer that Tyler had given Derek his lunch one afternoon, when his mom had forgotten to pack one for him. Had smiled at Derek, gifted him with an easy wink, told him to take care of himself. Asked him how Paige was doing (Derek didn’t think Tyler noticed him, let alone his girlfriend).

The sandwich wasn’t a big deal. Even the friendly questions weren’t a big deal.

And surely—surely the way that Derek noticed how his arms flexed, the way that his broad shoulders moved when he took a shot, the way that his green eyes crinkled up at the sides when he smiled—surely the way that Derek noticed all of those things at their next practice wasn’t a big deal either.

He was dating Paige. He loved Paige.

So he swallowed down Mark’s words ( _people are going to think you’re gay, soon, Derek_ ) and pretended that the ground hadn’t just become a constant level two earthquake.

He wasn’t gay. He loved Paige.

The worst part was-- He should feel bad, should hate this attraction. He knew that. But some tiny voice in his head whispered that this was right, that what he was feeling was relief, that the _someday you’ll understand_ had finally come to pass. He wasn’t gay, but maybe he was… blooming. Maybe he’d finally figure out what it was that Paige seemed to feel when she kissed him.

Maybe he wasn’t broken.

Then again, maybe he was.

He killed Paige. His love was strong enough, desperate enough to break her, to shatter her in his hands like he used to shatter mugs before he’d gotten a handle on his strength. He’d killed Paige.

And yet he still didn’t know how he felt.

But Kate.  Kate kissed him with something more than even Paige ever had, something harder and more targeted. Kate understood. Of that he was sure.

And Kate wiped his fears away. She reassured him, told that what he was feeling was exactly what he was supposed to be feeling. I can smell your arousal, she’d tell him. This is what lust tastes like, can you feel it? You’re attracted to me, Derek, I know you are. Look how hard you are, Derek. That’s for me, all for me. That’s arousal. That’s want.

He believed her. Because what the hell did he know?

He went along with whatever she wanted, even though it didn’t feel like he’d imagined it would. It didn’t feel like he’d thought it might, with Tyler; it didn’t even feel like kissing Paige had, the warmth and butterflies and calmness.

It kind of felt like _hurt_ , but Kate told him it was attraction. Derek wondered why people went to war for it.

He didn’t ask.

He’d always been a person with holes. Always done things in halves, always existed in halves. Like this unnatural, split, strange attraction, two sides of the same coin, one side given to Paige, one to Tyler.

He didn’t even have a half for Kate, but he convinced himself that he could. That he had more to give if only he could ignore the nagging and fuel the want. The want to be right, like a moth to a spark, the want to be whole.

When she’d stop and stare at him when they were kissing and she’d grin, like it was private, even though Derek could see it, he assumed that what she was feeling was attraction too.

Until the night of the fire.

Until he saw her laugh as he choked on the flesh, the _ash_ , of his family, and smelled nothing but his own devastating rage. Couldn’t smell her emotions. Realized that he never had.

That was the night that Derek-- under the moon and in front of a huntress--  finally, ironically, inappropriately, realized what Peter had been talking about.  With the boys, with the questions and the hurt and the _sex_. He’d felt it before, after Paige, but he hadn’t had a word for it, until that night.

It wasn’t attraction that his uncle had been talking about.

It was power.

\--- --

There were times when Isaac got this look. Like he was trying to figure out which of the options presented was the least likely to get him killed.

Which was ridiculous, since it was Derek asking, and honestly, there hadn’t been a life-or-death question in Beacon Hills in over 4 years.

4 years, 76 days, and-- 3 hours, to be precise.

That’s how long it had been since Stiles had woken up from his possession. Since the nogistune had been killed and the last threat in their town had been eradicated. Since Derek’s pack had become safe.

Almost all of them had made it through unscathed.

(Almost had never been Derek’s favourite word).

He hadn’t known Allison that well, but the others had, and it had hurt them like a bitch.

Derek was sure that her death had actually changed something fundamental about the circles under Stiles’s eyes, the draw of Isaac’s eyebrows, the twitch in Boyd’s shoulders; molding flesh and bone and _core values_ and _hope_ like they were softer than clay, pushing and pressing dark indents into the pack’s skin like bruises. Even Erica-- even _Scott_ \-- spoke more softly for years afterward, like they were afraid that any loud noises would act like a gunshot and get another one of them killed.

Derek understood that better than he’d liked to admit.

(He’d never been good at admitting things. Who could blame him? His ex had literally burned down his house for sharing his feelings. That was bound to emotionally constipate a person.

And it wasn’t funny, not even in an acerbic, ironic wit kind of way, not even a little, not even this many years later. But he could pretend, for a half-second, that it was.

What was that quote? How terrible to love something that death could touch? Derek had quite a few someone’s now. Maybe always had).

Isaac. Isaac was one of those someones.

Isaac, who was staring at him, and then anywhere _but_ at him, and then at him again, like Derek had just asked him some sort of monumentally shocking question.

Which—really? After the moose-mug situation Derek had expected he’d have a little more wiggle room on actions that he could take before he crossed into surprising territory.

But apparently not. “Isaac? What do you think?”

Isaac squinted. He was dressed like a he today, in sweats and a gray hoodie, his hair mussed from his run. “You want to go to Pride with me.”

“With the pack, yeah,” Derek nodded.

“Do you even… how do you even know what Pride is?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I have a computer.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, because Isaac laughed. He looked a little guilty about it though, once he was done, so Derek dialed the glaring down a notch.

Another bad move. Isaac’s expression turned wicked. “So Stiles told you, huh?”

Fuck.

Ah, well, better to go with it. “He weakened me with furniture first. With throw pillows, Isaac.”

Isaac glanced toward the living room (and they really had to stop having awkward conversations in the middle of the kitchen; Derek was pretty sure that living rooms were a thing for a reason. Not for throw pillows, surely, but for some reason). “I just assumed that you were partial to fuzz.”

There was something in his voice, in his expression and amused smell, that Derek just knew he was missing. “Do you want to go, or not?”

There. There was the look. Isaac was searching

(Would he be, if Derek had gotten to him sooner? Would Derek have found him, chosen him, if he hadn't been?)

It was as if the concept of what _he_ wanted hadn’t even occurred to him. Couldn’t even occur to him, until he’d sussed out the danger first, the pressure points and advantages and expectations. Isaac shoved his _want_ behind Derek’s like Derek’s could shield it. Hide it.

Derek knew something about that.

“I don’t ask questions if I don’t want an honest answer,” he reminded gently.

Isaac blinked, then nodded. “I,” he cleared his throat. “I’m just not sure what I want.”

Derek’s heart swelled at the small piece of honesty. He resisted the urge to clap Isaac on the back, or say _congratulations_ or _I’m proud of you_ or some other lame parental thing that he totally felt right then. Isaac didn’t need a parent.

Instead he said, going for neutral-but-not-angry- _god-Derek-rearrange-your-eyebrows_ , “Okay.”

Isaac watched his shoes. “I’m not ready to be out to the others,” he admitted, one hand scratching at the back of his neck.

Yeah. Derek understood that too.

He stepped forward, gently removing Isaac’s hand from his nape and replacing it with his own, scenting him without even thinking about it. “You don’t have to be. We can just… go. If you want. The whole group, no pressure. And,” he added, thinking of closets and basements and crowds, “we can have a signal, if you need to leave early, or even take a break. I can help you get out of the main area or take you home any time, no questions asked. By anyone.” He bared his teeth.

Isaac’s mouth seemed to be trying to do something. “Okay.”

“Or,” Derek said, “we don’t have to go.”

“Go without me?” He leaned into Derek’s hand a little.

Derek shook his head. “The others, maybe, but I won’t. We’re pack. And I know you can make your own choices and stay home without us, and I don’t want this to feel like emotional manipulation because I’m not going if you won’t, but that’s just the truth. I’m pretty neutral on this idea, Isaac. If I go, it’s because of you.”

_ Because of what you’ve already inspired in me, with your bravery, with your openness, with your trust in me and especially me because you haven’t even told anyone else _ and that’s something that Derek was determined to cradle carefully and with great joy.

Isaac clenched his shoulders, wrapping even further until he was starting to smoosh into Derek’s chest. “Okay. Sure. I’ll go. I want to.”

\--- --

He missed her, sometimes.

She had made it so easy. She was the only one who’d gotten him through that time, in all honesty. He would never forget what she did for him.

She was also the first girl-- the first woman-- that he’d wanted the same way he’d wanted Tyler.

Braeden. Her name wasn’t soft, like Paige’s had been, but it didn’t come with the sickly sweet dread of _Kate_ or the heavy adolescent boy denial of _Tyler_. It was just her, all cards on the table, and she’d wanted him.

He’d wanted her too. At first he’d wanted her the way he’d wanted Kate or Jennifer or anyone. The way that he’d used to want to pile rocks up in his room as a kid, putting the biggest, nicest ones on top and calling them a collection because it made it feel like he had something that was his.

At first he’d wanted her like he’d wanted _security_. Then later--  probably too much later but he didn’t care because she’d never pushed him, never wanted anything from him except for exactly what he’d wanted to give and no more and no less-- the way that he’d wanted Paige _and_ the way he’d wanted Tyler had bowled him over like one of the fucking freight trains they spent half their time escaping on.

He’d clung to her during sex, wanting her body, wanting her noises and her eventual release and even his own release, which was new. He’d also clung to her after sex, outside of sex, when nothing sexual was remotely implied and they were both covered in sand and unshed tears and probably all of the dead bugs they’d sped into on the freeway.

Derek had loved her, in his way.

She had loved him in hers.

It had worked for both of them. The travelling, the not talking. The running and healing in equal measure. They took strength from each other, took exactly what they needed, nothing more, nothing less.

And when they parted, amicably, mostly, and he’d smelled salt on both of them, it had hurt, but not in a bad way. They had worked until they hadn’t. They both needed more even if Derek didn’t want to admit it, had kicked and screamed and fought against that reality for the last few weeks of their travelling. They both needed more. He knew.

Still. It hurt, in a way he hadn’t even remotely let himself realize that it would.

She’d left him with a word, though. For something he’d barely dared talk about but had, in their quiet safe space of the road, the night, the sex. She’d told him about her ex-girlfriend, and he’d told her about basketball.

So. That, plus the hurt in his chest that her absence had carved out--

Derek knew that he was bisexual, after Braeden left him.

\--- --

Derek knew that he was _fucked_ , when he met Stiles.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Stiles asked him, nose wrinkled in a way that definitely, definitely wasn’t endearing. He gestured despondently over Derek’s clothing. “I mean… really, dude?”

Derek huffed. “What’s wrong with it?”

He was wearing what he’d normally wear: a grey t-shirt, regular jeans, and his leather jacket. So, regular. Besides, Stiles was in his room, on his bed. While the rest of the pack waited—respectfully—in the car for the both of them. Derek could wear whatever he wanted as far as he was concerned.

Stiles chortled. “I’m sorry- what’s-? Dude, look, I know you’re just an ally and you’ve got that lowkey _don’t look at me straight guy thing_ going on-“ his arms went up to do the air quotations- “but this is Pride. It’s a celebration, so you could look a little less like you’re about to-“

“Not an ally.” Derek didn’t want to give Stiles the chance to finish that sentence.

Stiles’s head snapped up. “Not an- okay, rude.  Why are you even coming if-“

“Not straight either,” he mumbled.

“I mean, is it some sort of werewolf thing? You’re all homophobic or-?”

“Stiles.”

“Because I just wonder why you’re even-“

“ _Stiles.”_

“And to say that you’re not an-“

Stiles cut himself off this time, mouth dropping open and eyes widening slowly. “Wait… rewind. What did you just say?”

Heat seeped up through the back of Derek’s neck, flashing furiously up toward his ears. “Not an ally.” He coughed. “Not straight.”

Stiles took a slow sip of his drink, trance-like, then abruptly choked on it. “Wow. Well. Fuck me sideways over a table.”

Derek glanced at the droplets of orange Gatorade now littering the top of his comforter, decidedly shoving that mental image into a compartment somewhere in the back of his mind so he wouldn’t picture it. He shrugged.

Stiles watched the movement indignantly. “How come you’ve never told me? This whole time I thought you were a het-“

“A what?”

“A het, you know, heterosexual, into the girls,” he did finger guns, “straight as an arrow.” He cringed. “Or not an arrow. No arrows are good too.”

Derek paused. “Well. I am into girls,” he said. He tugged at a thread on his jeans. “Guys and girls. Anyone. I’m bisexual.”

The word still felt foreign. But when he looked back up, Stiles’s eyes were alight. “Dude, that’s rad! Me too!”

Which, yeah. Splayed out across Stiles’s chest in bright, bold font were the words _“ain’t no lie, baby bi bi bi.”_ Derek didn’t get the reference, but it wasn’t exactly subtle. “Shocker.”

(He sounded condescending;

Just-- this was Stiles, who wore his flaws and his brilliance in equal measure on his sleeves. Who tore into his chest and exposed his heart for each and every person that he loved.

This was Stiles, who had taken the heavy jacket that had settled onto his shoulders at much too young an age and had tilted his chin up, made it an accessory, told the world that he wore and abandoned it at will and dared the world to contradict him.

Of _course_ this man would also own a t-shirt for this. How could he not?)

Stiles wasn’t dissuaded. “Shit, dude, all the more reason for you to be dressed a little better! Don’t you have any merch?”

Derek bit his lip. He rolled his eyes, lifting up the very bottom corner of his sleeve to reveal the thin pink, purple and blue bracelet he’d tucked underneath (without words or slogans, thank you very much. Derek was classy). Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he lifted the other sleeve, where a pink, blue and white bracelet was tied. “For a friend,” he explained, before dropping it.

That had taken him some time to figure out-- the whole, flag thing, and pride thing, and where to get _merch._ He’d wanted to support Isaac, and also the rest of his pack, who maybe hadn’t come out either. It was something hadn’t thought about until Isaac did it, but he wanted his home to be welcoming. Or at least, more than just safe. Safe was a pretty low baseline.

Derek aimed higher these days.

So. Bracelets.

He cleared his throat, feeling suddenly rather small.

Stiles was looking at him with intensity, like he couldn’t quite make sense of Derek. That wasn’t surprising; no one ever could. Not since the fire, anyways.That was how he'd wanted it. 

They cleared their throats at the same time.

“So, I’m good,” Derek noted.

Stiles nodded slowly. His hair flopped forward in front of his eye and Derek clamped down the urge to reach for it. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, yeah, fair. But can you just do one thing for me, maybe? Just consider it?”

Derek eyed him warily—Stiles had that look, like when he was trying to figure out a puzzle. Derek wasn’t a puzzle, didn’t want anything to do with puzzles anymore-- but he sighed. “What, Stiles?”

“If we get there, and you’re enjoying yourself…” he grinned. “I brought more face paint.”

Yeah, Stiles was wearing that too, bright rainbow colours on the tops of his cheekbones, glitter across his forehead. Like a unicorn had exploded on him.

It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t.

Stiles held his hands out consolingly, and Derek realized he’d been glaring. “Just a thought.”

Derek’s instinct was to say no, of course not, of course he wouldn’t wear face paint, who did Stiles take him for and besides he should take his own off too because face paint made you stand out, made you a target, and--

“It’s unscented?” Stiles added, cautiously, and--

Fuck. It was.

“Okay,” Derek agreed. He held up a hand to stop Stiles’s excited propulsion toward him, not wanting him to spill anything more of his drink. “I’ll consider it.”

He wouldn’t.

There was no way.

Still, something bright and warm licked at the inside of his chest. The idea of it, of having a taste of the kind of freedom that Stiles seemed to live in, it was—

It was kind of intoxicating. It felt like power. Like warmth.

Like power _and_ warmth, which Derek hadn’t even known could exist together.

It made him happy to see Stiles smile, too, lighting up like it was Christmas. Stiles smiled more often now than he used to, but they were still rare enough to be precious.

“Maybe isn’t a no,” Stiles pointed out.

Derek couldn’t help it, the smile that was coming. It reached out for Stiles’s like a magnet. “We’ll see.”

He knew he wouldn’t. Derek had never been a face-paint kind of guy. A _pride_ kind of guy. He was going for his pack, that was all. No extras needed.

Still. Some part of him, a little, traitorous piece of his heart, told him to reserve his judgement.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hmu at @wewalkadifferentpath on tumblr or @adifferentpath on twitter and talk pride to me :)


End file.
